


it all started with a soapy bucket and a bit of skin

by thealienmeme



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anyways, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), and now look at this, god what have i become, i can't believe i let neil gaiman and terry pratchett ruin my life like this, it's mostly fluff and stupid and self indulgent, listen, this monster, this was supposed to be a short fic about them washing the bentley together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealienmeme/pseuds/thealienmeme
Summary: While washing the Bentley, Crowley gets worked up when Aziraphale sheds off a few of his layers and pushes his sleeves up. What ensues is a bunch of tomfoolery as these idiots try to out-fluster each other.





	it all started with a soapy bucket and a bit of skin

**Author's Note:**

> this is my second GOmens fic and man are these fun to do. let me know if you have any ideas for fics but don't feel like writing them! 
> 
> shoutout to kaleigh and aeron, who encourage my dumbass when i have an idea to write 
> 
> also i'm thealienmeme on tumblr, too, if you want to follow me for shit content.

_ We could’ve just miracled the car clean, _Aziraphale thought as he picked up a large bucket, now filled with soapy water. It was a beautiful April afternoon, the sun was shining and there was a pleasant breeze coming off the coast. 

Crowley was perched inside the driver's side of the Bentley and was holding a small, wet rag in one hand and running a long, white-gloved finger across the dashboard with the other. He looked very concentrated, his yellow eyes squinting as if he was missing some unseen menace of dirt or dust. 

Aziraphale set the bucket down hard in front of the demon’s legs, creating a loud clunk and effectively startling Crowley enough to jump. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, rubbing his head where it had met with the ceiling. “Be a little more careful, would you?” 

“I could be reading.” 

Aziraphale had his arms crossed, and Crowley reproachfully looked from the bucket to the figure standing before him. 

“Not having fun?” he asked, with a smirk. 

Aziraphale huffed out softly. 

“We’ve been out here for an hour already.” 

Crowley slowly took off his special only-for-cleaning-the-Bentley-glove and pulled at Aziraphale’s waist in order to properly wrap him in his arms. He rested his chin on the angel’s stomach and looked up. 

The sun was high in the sky by now, Crowley noted. They _ had _ been out here for a while. Aziraphale’s head was luckily just in the position to block the sunlight from Crowley’s eyes, creating a halo around his soft blonde curls. This level of irony would have normally elicited a carefully perfected eye roll* if it didn’t make Aziraphale look so… well… angelic. 

*Crowley had invented the eye roll after being approached by one too many overly enthusiastic religious types throughout the last 60 centuries or so.

“You don’t have to stay out here with me, you know.” Crowley mumbled into the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Even on a nice day like this, the angel wore at least four layers. 

Aziraphale’s hands naturally fluttered up to rest on the crown of Crowley’s head and began gently carding through his hair. 

It was nice being able to finally touch each other like this after 6,000 years of wanting. Soft, simple caresses that screamed to Heaven or Hell or whoever else may have been listening, _ I love you. _

It’s been almost a year since the not-quite-Apocalypse and Crowley and Aziraphale had moved to a lovely little cottage in South Downs, leaving behind the claustrophobic city. Aziraphale looked off into the distance at the chalk hills. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale said, “No, I’m staying out here. Come on, let’s hop to it, then.” 

Crowley smiled and released the angel from his grasp, watching as Aziraphale turned and took off his overcoat. Carefully, he placed it on the fence of the cottage and began rolling up his sleeves. 

Crowley hadn’t moved. 

Turning, bucket in hand, Aziraphale noticed this and stopped.

  
“Is something wrong, dear boy?” 

Crowley had turned a light shade of pink and was opening and closing his mouth as if to answer, but no words were coming out. Aziraphale followed Crowley’s gaze until his eyes rested on his own exposed forearm. 

Crowley looked up and was met with an eyebrow raise from Aziraphale. 

“Erm. Nothing. ‘S all good.” 

Crowley is good at many things like gardening, knowing how to cheer Aziraphale up before the angel can even recognize that he’s sad, picking out watermelons that are _ just _ perfectly ripe, the list is endless, really. The list of things he is bad at is decidedly shorter, with lying at number one*. 

*Number two was “being a demon,” but we don’t want to hurt his feelings. 

“Something particularly fascinating about my forearms?” 

Crowley looked away quickly, reaching to grab the bucket from Aziraphale’s hands, instead. His eyes noticeably out of focus. 

“Er- no, I mean, I just don’t quite get to see them very often, now do I?” 

“I would argue that you see a lot more of me exposed, recently,” Aziraphale said with a light chuckle. 

This only made Crowley blush harder, the memory of their nights together for the last year hot on his neck. 

“Oh, you know what I mean!” Crowley said, pushing up and out of the Bentley. He grabbed a sponge and started in on the front of the car. “You’re always wearing approximately 45 layers* and so yes I’m a little flustered that you’ve gone and rolled your sleeves up.” 

*Crowley had also invented the hyperbole.

Aziraphale had grabbed the other sponge and was now working on the other side of the car, with a look that didn’t mean he was _ deep _in thought, per se, but was treading lightly in the shallow end of thought. 

*

Crowley was grabbing his keys from the table when he realized Aziraphale wasn’t already waiting at the front door for him. The angel, ever impatient with the slow pace at which Crowley does, well, everything is usually standing at the door, an annoyed but fond look seemingly glued onto his face. 

“Angel! Come on, the movie starts at 6, we’re already late.” 

Muffled sounds came from their bedroom and before Crowley could take a step forward to investigate, Aziraphale responded. 

“Ah- yes, er, just a moment.” 

Aziraphale turned the corner, adjusting the bottom of his shirt as he approached. Crowley stared. Aziraphale moved to fidget with the cuffs of his sleeves. 

“Ok, all ready. Sorry, dear boy, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” 

Aziraphale had on his usual brown corduroy pants, but the top was what was different. Instead of his carefully layered ensemble, typically including _ at leas _t three pieces, Aziraphale was wearing a pale blue button-up, with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

And that was it. No fussy vest, no overcoat, just… a shirt. 

Crowley, who had not moved since Aziraphale turned the corner, might as well be looking at a pinup. An embarrassingly bright blush started on his cheeks. 

“Crowley…? Are you quite alright-?” 

Crowley had taken off his sunglasses, quickly closing the space between them, and was on Aziraphale before he could even finish his question. 

They missed the movie that night. 

* 

_ How dare he pull a stunt like that when he knows I’ve been wanting to see that movie, _ Crowley thought, angrily*. 

*Well, as angry as you can be lying in bed, cuddled up next to someone who you love deeply, and have for a very long time. 

Aziraphale shifted and now had his nose buried in Crowley’s hair. One sigh and a light squeeze of Crowley’s hips later and a soft “Good morning,” found its way into the cool air of the bedroom. 

“Been taking notes, have you?” Crowley asked, turning to face Aziraphale, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes like he was so sweet and innocent, the bastard. 

“Hm?” 

Crowley gestured to the blue shirt from the day before, which had been thrown down next to the bed haphazardly. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, smiling at the shirt as if he was telling an inside joke. 

“You!” Crowley was softly poking at Aziraphale’s chest. “You know _ exactly _ what I’m talking about, angel, and I don’t know if I’m mad or impressed.” 

“Mad?” Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbows. 

“Well, I _ did _want to see that movie…” 

“You’re the one who attacked me in the middle of our hallway, Crowley,” Aziraphale, who had the audacity to turn pink, said. “All I did was wear lighter attire than usual. It’s _ warm _ and I tend to wear a lot of layers, as you’ve pointed out.” 

“Didn’t bother you before, though,” Crowley said, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

“Did you not like the shirt?” 

“Not like it? Aziraphale, I- _ trust me _, I liked the damn shirt. A lot. I just was wondering what brought the sudden appearance of more of your skin about.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I thought it would be nice for a change of pace,” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “And maybe I know someone who seemed as if they would quite like to see more of me so casually.” 

Crowley sputtered what was probably going to be a witty response as Aziraphale bent down and kissed his forehead before getting out of bed. 

“Tea, dear?” Aziraphale said as he walked down the hallway. 

_ Oh, it is on, _Crowley thought*. 

*What exactly “it” is, we aren’t quite sure. 

* 

Aziraphale was puttering around the little library Crowley had made him. It wasn’t quite the literary monstrosity that his bookshop had been, but it was still perfect. And dusty. So maybe it wasn’t that different from the old shop, after all. 

He was in the middle of dusting a particularly old copy of Beowulf when he heard someone* walking down the hallway. 

*Well, there’s really only one person it could be.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, peeking out from behind the bookshelf. 

After a moment of silence, Aziraphale went back to what he was doing, figuring Crowley was in a Mood™ or perhaps didn’t feel like speaking. 

Crowley’s footsteps stopped as he reached the doorway. He leaned against it, waiting patiently for Aziraphale to look back up from his dusting. 

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Do you know what happened this morning? I got a call from London! Quite unexpected, but it was one of my old book collector friends. They said that they found a first edition copy of… er, of…” But Aziraphale didn’t get to finish his story, as he had now looked up. 

There Crowley stood, all gangly limbs and sharp edges. Aziraphale had never minded, he always thought Crowley was the most beautiful creature in the world, but he realized that he was seeing… a lot more of those edges in this… _ outfit _the demon had donned. 

“What uh,” Aziraphale stuttered out after an embarrassingly long 34 seconds. “Where are you, er, going dressed like… hm. Like that?” 

Crowley smirked. 

He was wearing an old band tee that he had cut up generously. The sleeves were gone and left holes gaping enough that you could see the entire side of his torso all the way from his armpits down to his hips. There was a triangle cut into the collar right at his throat, revealing a large part of his chest. You could just barely tell what band had originally graced the shirt*. 

*It was Led Zeppelin, in case you were wondering

Below that was a pair of shorts that were just tight enough that they toed the border between acceptable for public wear and completely obscene. After letting his eyes linger for a moment too long, Aziraphale noted that Crowley was holding a towel and had flip flops on. _ Ah. _

“‘M going to the beach, angel,” Crowley drawled, letting his arms fall from their spot crossed on his chest. “Figured I’d do a bit of basssking while the weather is nice.” 

Crowley was still smirking. 

“Er, yes, well. Do have fun!” Aziraphale quickly turned back to his dusting when something shiny caught his eye. “Uh, Crowley?” 

Crowley, who had turned to walk down the hall, stopped and put a hand on the doorway. “Yesss, Aziraphale?” 

“What is that on your shorts?” 

“Where?” 

As Crowley turned to catch a glimpse at what the angel was talking about, Aziraphale got a full view of Crowley’s exposed sides and neck. Who knew that a simple turn and a bit of skin would be Aziraphale’s undoing*? 

*Everyone. Everyone knew

“I don’t see anything,” Crowley said as he turned back to face Aziraphale. 

Only Aziraphale was much closer than he had been a few seconds ago and Crowley suddenly found his face being held by two hands and trapped there by an expression of pure love and adoration and… maybe a hint of something else. 

“Angel, I-” Crowley started, possibly regretting his decision to tempt Aziraphale in his endeavour for revenge. 

But that regret was quickly washed away by the soft brush of lips on his and before he knew it, his towel had been abandoned in the hallway and he was being led softly in the direction of their bedroom. 

*

A few hours later, Crowley was laying cuddled up to Aziraphale’s chest as the angel softly ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Humming a song whose tune he just barely remembered. 

“Still going to the beach, dear?” Aziraphale asked, sounding a million lightyears away and more content than any person had any right to be. 

Crowley hummed into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck before breaking out into a soft laugh. 

“Oh, Angel, I was never really going to the beach.” 

Aziraphale shifted slightly so he could look at Crowley’s face, lit by the light of the now-setting sun coming through their window. 

“What?” 

“I only put on that ridiculous get-up so we’d end up right here, right where I wanted you,” Crowley smiled mischievously* and pressed himself farther into Aziraphale’s arms. 

*Crowley can’t help it, he has two smiles and one is the heartwarming and endearing smile reserved for one (1) angel and the other could match a kid who has just painted the dining room wall with spaghetti sauce - this was the latter. 

“Crowley, you know you don’t have to wear a scantily clad outfit to get me to bed,” Aziraphale said relaxing back into his previous position and staring at the ceiling. 

“I know. ‘S just fun to see you get worked up over some skin is all,” Crowley replied. 

“_ME? _ And what about you jumping on me like a cougar to prey when I decided to simply go outside with exposed _ forearms _?” 

“Oh, come off it, you knew what that was going to do, admit it! You saw me get all flustered last week when you rolled your sleeves up. I saw the gears turning in your head, angel. I know when you’re _ thinking _.” Crowley had brought a slender finger up to poke lightly at Aziraphale’s temple as he emphasized the last word. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale mumbled. 

“Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, twisting around to rest his chin on the angel’s chest. “Besides, I thought it was cute. _ But _ I was still upset about the movie, so this was my, er, revenge of sorts.” 

“My dear boy, we have until the end of the time to see that blasted movie!” Aziraphale laughed, a sound filled with incredulity and warmth. 

Crowley soaked in the laughter for a moment, closing his eyes to let it envelop his face, his body, letting the warmth run along his cool skin. 

A few moments passed like that. Two beings, two souls, entwined both metaphorically and physically there in the bedroom of their shared cottage. Sunlight and adoration and trust keeping their sheets cozy. 

“I love you.” Crowley murmured as he leaned up to kiss the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth when a hand came up to grasp his chin, stopping his journey. 

Aziraphale looked down, affection so entangled into his gaze that Crowley almost looked away, melting under its heat. 

“I love you, too.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s jaw and pulled him into a kiss, tender, sweet, and full of love and desire that has been burning since the dawn of time. 

Crowley forced himself to pull back after a moment, gazing with a longing that is matched only by lovesick teenagers or immortal hearts that have finally found each other after too many years apart. 

“So, did you like the outfit, then?” Another smirk. 

“Of course, dear, I adored it as much as I adore anything that you chose to put on that beautiful form of yours,” Aziraphale said, smiling back. “But I, er, did find myself rather attached to those shorts.” 

“I could wear them more often?” Crowley offered, settling his head back down into his previous spot on Aziraphale. 

“Yes, and at least we’ll know they’ll never need to be washed.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“Well, there’s no way I’d let them stay on you longer than the 5 seconds it takes to notice them and the 30 seconds it takes to get them off of you.” 

“You really are a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” 

“Not just any cheeky bastard, _ your _ cheeky bastard.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

The afternoon was spent just like that, in their little corner of not-quite Heaven and not-quite Hell. It was a place of their own creation. Somewhere peaceful and charming and built on the foundation of their love. Earth. If it weren’t for Earth, they would have never found each other*. 

*Well, they might have, but we’ll never know that story, now will we? 

***** BONUS: 

Aziraphale was tidying up the bedroom before dinner. Coming back to a clean room just made him feel more settled and ready for the night. He picked up clothes here and there, tossing some into the wash bin and others onto the bed to be folded, when he came across a pair of shorts. 

_ Ah, these are the perpetrators, _ Aziraphale thought as he picked them up off the ground. _ I wonder what that sparkly thing I saw earlier was. _

Aziraphale carefully pulled the shorts inside-out and began laughing uncontrollably. The kind of laughter where you’re not sure if you’re running out of oxygen, prepared to meet DEATH himself, or just out of breath. 

Crowley came running into the room, having only heard loud wheezes and a thud as Aziraphale fell to the ground.

“Angel! What’s wrong, is everything ok?” 

“C-c-CrOwLEy,” Aziraphale managed between gasps. “_ What on Earth _ is this on the back of your shorts?” 

Aziraphale was holding up the shorts in question, still shaking with laughter. Why, you ask? Because the word SLUT was artfully bedazzled across the butt pockets. 

Crowley turned a deep shade of red. 

“It was all they had at the store! I didn’t have time to pluck the damned gems off,” Crowley grumbled. “Everything has to have something on it, nowadays. Can’t even get a decent pair of shorts without something stupid being attached.” 

Aziraphale had stopped his fit of laughter and was now giggling while trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. 

“Oh, you poor, poor demon. Here, let me make it better,” Aziraphale said as if he were speaking to a 5-year-old with a booboo. 

Aziraphale placed a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. 

“I can get rid of them, if you want-” Crowley reached to grab the shorts from Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale smiled, tossing the shorts onto the bed. 

  
“Now, now dear boy, when did I _ ever _ say I wanted that?”


End file.
